


Replico

by starseeker95



Series: Electio [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-21 14:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starseeker95/pseuds/starseeker95
Summary: Rodimus beleives that he is alone in his feelings for his co-captain when, really, he couldn't be more wrong. When the Lost Light comes under attack, true feelings are at last exposed...But, as with many 'almosts' and 'maybes,' the truth may have come too late.





	1. Chapter 1

Rodimus gasped as the next thrust struck his ceiling nodes, stealing away what clear thoughts he had left. He felt so scattered, so vulnerable under the bigger mech, unable to stop his wanton cries as his one-time enemy held him close. Already, the prime could feel his overload approaching and what had it been? Ten thrusts, twelve maybe?

How embarrassing.

From where he was pinning Rodimus against the wall, Megatron had barely begun. His vents were still relatively even and unhurried as he found his stride, bucking his hips upward to bury his thick length into his keening co-captain. 

The former warlord was a wonderment to Rodimus. No matter how hard he tried, he could never hold out long enough for Megatron to finish first. No, the speedster was always the one who broke, requiring his partner’s hand covering his mouth to keep them from being found out.

Naturally, they’d chosen their usual place to “do the thing,” as Rodimus called it. Interfacing had become a kind of common ground, something that they both agreed on. Rodimus preferred his valve, Megatron, his spike. It was one of the few things that they agreed upon, something that they used particularly frequently after an argument on the bridge. It was easy and, thanks to Rodimus, it was quick.

“Oh- oh, slag- Megs, I- I’m- gonna-“

As per usual, Megatron’s large black hand appeared and pressed against the prime’s mouth, going quite a ways toward muffling his cry of completion. Due to his mouth being covered, Rodimus was pacified when a quick kiss was placed on the side of his helm. Necessary evils, as Megatron had explained it. They couldn’t risk being found out. Besides, Rodimus thought, the larger mech probably enjoyed silencing him. This was the only way that he physically ever could without getting written up or worse by Magnus.

Overload struck Rodimus like a blow, sending the red mech’s processor reeling and his body tensing. In his vocalizer, a moan echoed, trapped inside by Megatron’s firmly applied palm. Rodimus’ helm tilted back and his spinal strut bowed as charge raced across his plating. Deep in his valve, the young prime felt his caliper rings clenching repeatedly as he reached the height of his pleasure and at some point his optics crossed under the assault of sensory information.

Megatron buried his face against the prime’s neck cables and he slowed his pace slightly, drawing out Rodimus’ overload. The prime hated him for it. But more than he hated Megatron, he hated himself.

In the midst of coming down, Rodimus felt more than heard the words that his partner whispered against his neck. “Shall I continue?”

“Y-Yeah, I’m good. Do your thing.”

It was always the same, like Megatron had to make sure that he wasn’t too worn out after his own overload to continue. Rodimus couldn’t help but feel more used when the ex-Decepticon asked. Of course, he knew that this was a business transaction and that neither of them truly cared for the other. 

Rodimus Prime couldn’t remember when this had become something else to him. 

A klik later and a little earlier than usual, the silver mech jerked and held deep. Rodimus soon felt the warm sensation of transfluid hitting the back of his valve and knew that soon he would be set on his peds and left behind in the closet. He would wipe away the evidence with the cloth Megatron tossed him and that would be the end of it until they connected optics again, be it the next cycle or ten from the present.

Rodimus grunted as the other mech pulled out. While Megatron continued to hold his hips, the prime slowly guided his knees together, grimacing at the discomfort. It was always just beyond his limit when he took his co-captain between his thighs. Doing his best to play it off, Rodimus gave his counterpart a saucy smirk and dropped himself to the floor. “Same time tomorrow?”

The fact that Megatron didn’t answer shouldn’t have surprised him. Instead, the silver mech didn’t make optic contact as he retrieved a cloth from his subspace and passed it to Rodimus. While he wiped the worst of the stains from his thighs, the bigger mech put away his limp spike and replaced his modesty channel. It was only when he had finished that Megatron spoke, his voice rough form his overload. “Perhaps.”

Rodimus wrinkled his nose, pretending annoyance as he tried to quash the hope from his field. He loved the interfacing, he really did. It gave him a taste, no matter how small, of what he could have. 

But the act also left him feeling more empty than anything else, especially when they had both finished and Megatron was opening the door.

“Are you… well?”

The awkward question jolted Rodimus from his thoughts and he gave Megatron his best 100-watt smile. He shot fingerguns, ignoring the ache that had begun in his spark. “You bet! See you out there, old mech.”

Megatron quirked an optic ridge before turning a making a hasty exit, likely more embarrassed for Rodimus than the prime was for himself.

When the closet door closed, Rodimus found himself alone in the darkness again with only the light of his own optics to illuminate the surroundings. He sighed, trying to collect himself before stepping back out into the hall.

This closet had become intimately familiar. Streaks of gold and red scuffs marked the wall where Megatron always fragged him, glaringly obvious under the dim light of his optics. The floor sported similar markings from one failed attempt where they’d tried it that way, but it had proven to difficult and the cramped space had been hard on Rodimus spinal strut. As Rodimus looked over the incriminating evidence, he found himself sliding to the floor.

His chest rattled as he drew in a vent and the little prime fought to keep ahold of himself. When had he slipped up? When had the interfacing started to mean something? Better yet, when had _Megatron _started to mean something?__

__Rodimus swallowed thickly, still aware of the transfluid that coated the inside of his valve. It made him feel dirty in a strange way. It shouldn’t have meant anything at all to him, Pit, something like that wouldn’t have bothered Hot Rod so long ago. Back then, he’d had his fair share of interfacing partners, all of them no-strings-attached and strictly for fun. But now, sitting on the floor of the closet, with his valve freshly fragged and his field tingling from another wonderful overload, Rodimus Prime felt disgustingly dirty._ _

__When had interfacing with Megatron turned from casual to something more for him?_ _

__Maybe it was the way that the bigger mech asked after him, or the way that he was careful with Rodimus’ smaller frame. Perhaps it was the way Megatron refused to kiss him on the lips, but still kissed him on his valve, drawing delicious, heady sounds from the prime when he didn’t have to; it wasn’t part of their arrangement._ _

__Primus help him, it was wonderful during, but after?_ _

__Rodimus had never felt so alone and empty._ _


	2. Chapter 2

He’d never had so much trouble with words. Usually, they flowed though him, a continuous harmony concerning whatever or whoever had caught his fancy. He’d written about the mines he’d toiled in, the fights he’d won… he’d even written a poem or two for a certain blue-handed seeker. But now? Nothing. Not a single word sufficed when it came to describing his newest muse.

Megatron resisted the urge to fling both pen and stylus across the room. This was impossible! Why was Rodimus so difficult to capture? The silver mech had had less trouble fighting off five mechs at once in the Pits. But now, as he tried to conjure up the glimmering face of his muse in his processor, all words fled him. Primus, even thinking about the other mech momentarily stole the vents from his chest.

With a heavy sigh, he finally set aside his private datapad in favor of reading over a report from Ultra Magnus. At least that would mean that he was getting something done.

Across the room, Ravage rolled her optics, tail flicking from where she lounged on the back of the couch. “Let me guess… the prime is on your mind. Again.”

Megatron denied the catformer a reaction and instead held the new datapad higher until he could block her from view. Of course, to his chagrin, a dull thud struck the top of his desk a klik later, startling him enough that the datapad leapt out of his hands. The silver mech prided himself in remaining silent as Ravage studied him up close, her face mere feet from his own.

“Mech… you’ve got it bad. Worse than I thought.”

Again, Megatron grunted non-committally in place of giving a real answer. He couldn’t remember when he’d begun to feel what he did for the obnoxious little prime. At some point, their casual interfacing had grown into something entirely different. He’d become mesmerized by the way Rodimus’ optics flared in overload, the way the red mech’s vents gasped as he reached completion. Such things had fueled 

Megatron to write the first lines of poetry since before the beginning of the war.

But his verses weren’t worthy of what he saw when Rodimus smiled or when he laughed carelessly on bridge. They didn’t add up to the mech who pretended that he didn’t care, but really cared far too much. Pit, everyone knew that the speedster was a terrible captain; they’d voted him so. But there was no denying that Rodimus Prime was a stupendously brave and selfless mech.

Their interface in the closet just earlier had only served to rekindle Megatron’s need to write. He could still taste the condensation on his lips from where he’d kissed the side of Rodimus’ slick helm. He could still feel the field of his partner flaring around them, wild in its ecstasy as the smaller mech cried out into the former warlord’s palm.

“Hello, Lost Light to Megatron?”

Megatron blinked quickly before giving Ravage a look. “You’re standing on my work.”

“Like you were getting anything done.”

Before Megatron could gather his thoughts to defend himself, the feline jumped gracefully down off of his desk to land on silent paws. “You know, I thought this whole ‘arrangement’ was to help you clear your helm. Not make it worse.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“That game, huh?” Ravage rolled brilliant red optics before fixing Megatron with an unimpressed stare. “You leave revved up beyond measure and come back smelling like ozone and high performance engine exhaust. I know you didn’t frag Drift-“ -Megatron scowled down at her, but she continued- “-and I know that none of the other speedster frames on this ship would catch your fancy, nor would they berth you.”

“You sound so certain that they-“

“But you whisper Rodimus’ name in recharge, so that’s why I’m guessing it’s the prime. Am I right?” 

Megatron looked away, trying to hold back the worst of his embarrassment from reaching his field. The silver mech was unused to being so easily read, so easily effected by his emotions. He was used to being in control of himself… and Rodimus had gradually made it increasingly impossible.

He’d never been so completely distracted by a singular mech in his entire existence. After all, he was a gladiator and a leader in war. There was no time for such things, no time to form deeper connections with other mechs or femmes that he’d taken to his berth. After all, there was no point in becoming close to berthmates or potential intendeds. One never knew when a comrade would fall on the battlefield.

Even Starscream hadn’t captured his full attention, with all of the jet's unique… character traits. 

Megatron had never allowed himself to entertain the thought that he might find someone to care for completely. But then, suddenly, his own co-captain had stumbled right into his life and had turned everything he thought he’d known on its helm.

Ravage looked increasingly unimpressed as she settled back on the couch, this time on a pillow. “You should tell him how you feel.”

The silver mech couldn’t stop the incredulous sputter from leaving his vocalizer. He had just prepared another denial, but decided that it wasn’t worth it anymore. Primus help him, he was trying to write poetry about the mech. It was easy at this point to just admit it to himself. “I… cannot.”

“Why not? You’re fragging him, aren’t you? I think he deserves to know- either that, or you need to end the arrangement.”

“You’re feeling brave today, I see.”

Ravage continued, ignoring Megatron’s veiled hint to drop the subject. “If things have changed for you, then you need to tell him. Or stop fragging him at least. It’s not right and you know it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why this is any of your business.”

The catformer sighed and closed her optics, tail curling around herself languidly. “It wasn’t until it started affecting your duties… and my sleep… and my field space-“

“Alright!” Megatron reined back his annoyance, clearing his vocalizer before continuing. “Alright. Perhaps I will speak about it with him soon.”

“’It’ being?”

“Ending our arrangement.” After a pause, he continued. “I don’t think it is pertinent to reveal that I have developed… affections for him. It would only be a distraction and that is something that Rodimus does not need.”

Ravage opened a single optic to study him skeptically. In the end, she turned away from him, facing the other end of the room. Megatron barely detected her muttered “suit yourself.”

Frustrated with himself, the silver mech tried to refocus on the datapad in his hands, only to find himself unable to concentrate on the report after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Rodimus picked at his fingers as he stared out the window into open space. It was a habit that he’d picked up some time ago, back when he’d run with the Wreckers. It had been a good way to distract himself from other physical pain, like when he’d been getting repairs without dampeners. His speedster frame had burnt through them too quickly for the pain inhibitors to be useful, so he was rarely offered any at all. The picking had become a welcome distraction.

These cycles, he picked at his fingers when he was nervous. It was faintly soothing, watching the flecks of gold collect at the foot of the captain’s chair. Rodimus flicked at his hand and realized abruptly that he’d been picking where the numbers were once carved.

Out of nowhere, a familiar black hand appeared, far larger than the prime’s own, and covered the freshly injured palm. Rodimus looked up.

Megatron stood over him, looking down at the scattered gold shavings on the floor beside the chair as he spoke. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up. Is it shift change already?”

“That’s not what I… yes, yes it is.”

Rodimus flashed his co-captain a grin and the former warlord narrowed his optics, obviously displeased about something. Probably the paint flakes dirtying the floor and the arm of the captain’s chair. “I’ll be right back with a dustpan, I promise-“

“Actually,” the bigger mech shifted where he stood, recapturing the young prime’s attention. “I was hoping to speak with you. Privately, in the back office.”

“Oh. Okay, sure.”

As he followed Megatron’s broad frame to the office, Rodimus felt his sparkspin speed up. What could Megatron want to talk about privately? A thought occurred to him then. They’d never interfaced in the office before. Maybe that was what Megatron wanted to ‘speak’ with him about.

The thought made the speedster’s throat and valve both tighten. Part of him was excited for the feeling of being dominated by the bigger mech, to be used and abused against the desk or in the chair. But deep down, Rodimus dreaded what was to come. He hadn’t yet figured out what to do about his developing attraction to his co-captain. Even though he enjoyed the feel of Megatron around him and inside him, he wasn’t sure if he could stand it knowing that the act meant nothing to the other mech.

When he finally closed the door behind himself, the red mech took a shuddering invent. He turned, a convincing, sultry smile already in place. “Needed a change of pace, huh? I’ve gotta admit, Megs, I was just thinking-“

“Rodimus, we need to talk.”

“’T-Talk’?” Oh. This couldn’t be good then. “If this is about the paint picking, I’ll clean it up-“

The silver mech sighed, prompting Rodimus to trail off and look down at his peds. The last thing that he needed was for Megatron to be lecturing him too. It was bad enough with Ultra Magnus and Ratchet constantly on his aft about- well, everything.

Rodimus was so involved in his own self-chastising that he didn’t see the regret entering Megatron’s face, nor did he detect the bigger mech’s aborted attempt at reaching a hand for his shoulder.

Upon seeing the red mech in person, Megatron nearly lost his resolve. He wanted badly to tell the little prime how he truly felt, but knew that it couldn’t come to anything good. After all, he was a doomed mech. He was destined to die, to be executed before the masses in atonement for his sins. It was no secret to Megatron that he stood no chance of bringing the other mech anything but pain and sparkache. Even if Rodimus did happen to harbor anything close to affection for him right back, continuing their current path would only end in pain.

“Rodimus, I believe that it is time to end our arrangement.”

Megatron watched the other mech carefully, trying to gauge his reaction.

The prime, who’d been fixated on the pile of datapads still remaining on the desk for the to sort, slowly turned his helm back to look at Megatron. “What?”

“You heard me, Rodimus.”

Primus, why did his voice always sound so gruff, so impatient? Megatron knew that it wasn’t Rodimus’ fault. It was the silver mech’s own weakness for his co-captain that had led to them having this discussion.

The little prime was staring up at him, his mouth opening and closing twice before clamping shut entirely. Megatron, who’d become well acquainted with Rodimus’ mannerisms, watched as the lost look on the smaller mech’s face turned into one of feigned confidence. The tell was that the jubilant smile never once sparkled in Rodimus’ optics. “Am I too much for you to handle, Megs? It’s all good, can’t say that I really blame you. I’m just too hot, that’s all.”

Inside, Rodimus’ processor was spinning, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. His past lovers had always had something to say about his performances in the berth, had always tried to change one thing or another about him. But Rodimus had thought this would be different. Whatever he had with Megatron was no-strings-attached, no obligation or emotion… at least that’s how it was supposed to be anyway.

He knew already that he overloaded too quickly; that was the predominant complaint from past partners. But that had never stopped Megatron from reaching completion himself, so why did that matter? Maybe it was because Rodimus couldn’t keep quiet. But he and Megatron had never gotten caught so that couldn’t have been why Megatron wanted to end things. Was someone figuring it out, catching on to what they were doing? Rodimus had always tried to keep it on the down low. He hadn’t even told his own amica, Drift, and they weren’t supposed to have any secrets between themselves-

Megatron’s optics shifted downward, away from the prime’s face. Rodimus realized that he'd begun picking at his palm again, scattering tiny glinting pieces of paint… right down onto the warlord’s peds.

Rodimus sucked in a vent of air, suddenly fighting the most irrational urge to cry that he’d ever felt. “Alright then! Was that what you wanted to talk about? Awesome, sounds good. Anyway, I’ll let you take the bridge and I’ll go clean up the shavings by the chair so don’t worry about that and everything’s been quiet here, nothing to report, it’s all good, no problems- so I’ll- I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Before Megatron could answer, the smaller mech had spun and darted through the door, gone without a backwards glance. When the silver mech made it to the opening himself and peered out, the room was void of the red speedster. In his rush to leave, Rodimus hadn’t cleaned up the mess by the captain’s chair after all.


	4. Chapter 4

After the first cycle of making no progress, Rodimus had turned negotiations over to Megatron. 

The Lost Light had been in contact with the new lifeforms for cycles, trying to negotiate safe passage through their native space. At first, the native species had only been open to communicating through written text, each comm. painstakingly translated sentence by sentence before a reply could be returned. After much convincing and no small amount of patience spent, Megatron had finally convinced the new aliens to participate in a face-to-face vid screen meeting.

When Megatron first saw the alien on the vid screen, his first thought was of Earth’s praying mantis. The organic species appeared to be highly insect-like in mannerisms as well, made out of twitching antennae and flicking legs and wings. It took every ounce of the silver mech’s diplomacy not to react when the creature appeared and somewhere behind himself, he heard Ultra Magnus shift his peds.

The silver mech cleared his vocalizer. “Greetings. We are-“

“I don’t care who you are, Cybertronian.” The creature’s mandibles parted as it spoke, revealing a snaking tongue inside. “Your kind are not welcome here.”

“The war is over. As previously stated, we are just passing through. We desire no trouble.”

Over his shoulder, Megatron felt his second’s field spike. Ultra Magnus shuffled his peds again before coming forward to stand at his side, silent and stoic as ever.

The alien on the screen narrowed its bulbous eyes at them before zeroing in on Megatron once more. “I recognize you,” it hissed, its antennae fluttering with obvious agitation. “What is your designation?”

Throughout negotiations, the question of names had never come up after Rodimus’ initial contact. When Megatron opened his mouth to answer, Magnus beat him to it. “I am Ultra Magnus. We are a neutral ship and we request safe passage. Nothing more.”

With beady eyes twinkling, the creature tilted it’s large head, obviously listening as another of its kind spoke to it from nearby.

Megatron shared a glance with his second and forced his own face into a neutral mask. The tall mech at his side was fixated on the vidscreen, his large hands clasped behind his back. Out the corner of his optic, Megatron could see that Magnus’ fingers were tapping rhythmically, the former Enforcer’s tell that he was uneasy.

“You’ll excuse us.”

Without further explanation, the alien cut the line, leaving Megatron and the rest of the bridge crew staring into empty space. Out the front windows, the other ship could be seen in the distance, a shimmering beacon amid the millions of stars. 

“Sir, I think it would be wise to depart.”

Megatron turned fully to look at his SIC, surprise escaping into his field. “Oh?”

Ultra Magnus’ mouth was tight as he studied the distant ship. “They know of the war that divided us until recently and have shown aggression and distrust since our first contact with them some cycles ago.”

This was their third cycle negotiating with the insectoids and the foreign species was still barring them passage through their sector of the star system. This latest failed communication had been the first face-to-face interaction and they seemed no closer to being allowed to continue their course. 

In fact, Megatron was more worried about rising hostilities than he had been prior to the vid comm.

“Captain? We’ve just been struck with something…”

The silver mech turned to find Blaster standing at his shoulder, a datapad in the red mech’s hand. “’Struck’? By what?”

“It’s some kind of magnetic device-“

A femme from one of the stations at the back stood up suddenly, her optics wide. “Our shields are offline-“

Megatron turned to Ultra Magnus. “Get us out of this sector, now. You-“ He strode toward the captain’s chair with Blaster following in his wake. “Get a comm. to Perceptor. I want to know what tech they’ve used and how to-“

“Sir, our systems are shutting down-“

“Captain, something is-“

There was a white flash, followed by a deafening boom. Before Megatron had a chance to react, the bridge exploded around him.

 

~o0o~

 

Rodimus hadn’t recharged well in cycles.

Ever since Megatron had ended their arrangement, he’d struggled to try and figure out what had gone wrong. He hadn’t let on about his true feelings, he was sure of it. After all, Megatron’s hand was always covering his mouth during their dalliances; anything incriminating that he could possibly say in the moment would be stifled. And he was certain that no one had found them out, otherwise, they would be the talk of Swerve’s already.

The prime stretched, reached his hands up until they braced against the head of his berth. He arched his spinal strut until he felt the stiff segments crack, only relaxing again when the tension began to border on pain. 

As he lifted his hands back down to rest at his sides, he caught sight of his paint-bare palms. He’d managed to completely strip the metal on the inside of his hands, picking at them until the delicate components underneath bled through the armor breaks. Even now, the red speedster could detect a leaking line under the plating that covered his left palm.

The ship jolted around him, causing him to sit up hurriedly. “What in the-“

The lights in his habsuite dimmed momentarily before settling back to normal, leaving Rodimus to gaze nervously around the space. Maybe they’d struck a piece of space debris? Or maybe Brainstorm’s latest invention had blown up?

The prime sighed, only for his breath to catch a moment later as the lights flickered again. This time they went out completely. He sat in silence for a few kliks waiting for them to restart, but they never did.

Rodimus slid off of his berth and made his way carefully to the door, only to find the hallway equally black and silent. He fired off a comm. to Megatron, but received no reply.

A klik later, the emergency lights came on, drowning the hallway in an eerie red glow. Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, an alarm sounded, followed by another from the other direction. Rapidly growing concerned, the red mech sent his amica a comm. as he turned down the red lit hallway toward the bridge. :Drift, do you know what’s going on?:

The reply came back almost immediately. :I just heard back from Magnus. We’re under attack-:

Before the comm. had finished, Rodimus had transformed and was speeding down the hallway.


	5. Chapter 5

It all happened so quickly that Megatron wasn’t at first aware of what was happening. One moment, he’d been standing on the bridge and the next, he was on his back, pinned to the floor by the mech he’d been speaking to.

Struggling briefly, the silver mech managed to slip out from under Blaster’s limp frame. His audials were ringing and he couldn’t well remember how he’d gotten on the floor in the first place. “What in the-“

He felt his mouth making the words, but he couldn’t hear them leaving his vocalizer. Megatron rolled back toward the mech at his side only for his vents to stall in his chest.

Blaster’s face was gone.

The red mech was crumpled beyond recognition, Megatron wouldn’t have known that it was him if he hadn’t been speaking to the bot only a moment earlier. The sight of mangled metal that had once been the handsome mech’s face was enough to give the experienced warlord pause.

Abruptly, he felt himself being hauled to his peds and shoved toward the back of the bridge. Megatron stumbled, not quite back to himself and more than a little disoriented by the blow he’d taken. He turned his helm in confusion to ask whoever was pushing him what the Pit was going on-

The bridge had been destroyed. Mechs and femmes lay in twisted heaps, some of them wailing in pain while others lay silent and still in pools of energon. The front window panel had been blown inward and the steel barrier that was designed to close in such an event had already done so, leading Megatron to believe that he’d been stunned underneath Blaster for some time. Slowly, as his senses returned, the silver mech became aware of the surrounding gunfire and screaming.

The newcoming aliens were far larger than they’d appeared on the vid screen. From were he was behind the captain’s chair, Megatron could see three of them, their large bodies taking up even more space as their legs and wings flared in aggression. The former warlord stared in stunned disbelief as the one nearest to him took several rounds of laser fire directly to its body without even bleeding. It proceeded to pluck the offending femme from the floor and break her cleanly in half between its pincers before tossing her frame across the room. Energon splattered Megatron’s face and her dying scream echoed in his audials.

The mech at his elbow had returned to yelling in his audial and Megatron turned to find Ultra Magnus still trying to haul him toward the back of the bridge. But the silver mech couldn’t hear a word that he said, too addled on the chaos around him.

He began to remember what had brought about their current situation as the former Enforcer pushed him through the doorway. Megatron was barely aware as the door was closed securely in his wake, trapping himself and two other mechs inside the office at the back of the bridge.

The organics. The insectoid’s refusal to allow them passage. They’d done a face-to-face vid screen-

Megatron shook his helm, trying to clear it of the static that was blurring his vision. He didn’t register the energon that splattered the wall that he leaned against. What had happened after that comm. closed? 

He thought briefly of Rodimus as he wobbled dizzily and tried unsuccessfully to picture the little prime’s smiling face. He found quickly that he couldn’t remember a single thing about his co-captain, only that he hadn’t said so many of the things that he should’ve.

Outside on the bridge, the sound of gunfire continued, coupled with the bellowed orders of Ultra Magnus. A feeling of indignation washed over Megatron when he finally registered that he’d been virtually shoved into a closet to weather out the battle. He’d been preparing to bust through the door when one of the two mechs on the floor gazed up at him with wide-optics.

The mech, one whom he recognized as a relatively young bot named Circuit, was missing both of his legs from the knee joint down. He was leaking energon profusely and his biolights were flickering dangerously, threatening to go out.

Deciding ultimately against wasting both energy and time by trying to rejoin the fight, Megatron dropped to his knee beside the injured mech. “Easy now. I have you.”

Quickly, the silver mech super-heated a digit and prepared to cauterize the rapidly spilling lines in Circuit’s legs. As he worked, the smaller mech’s wide optics stayed fixed on him. “C-Captain- your helm-“

Megatron blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness from his optics. “It’ll be alright, just stay with me-“

The other mech, a former Decepticon called Battleblaze, rolled his helm against the wall until he could see them through his remaining optic. Megatron saw that the left side of his face had been melted down to cover where his optic should’ve been. The black bot’s mouth contorted into a lazy smile when he looked at his former leader. “Wow… pretty…”

Bots had been known to say many things when they looked at Megatron, but never had a single one said that he was ‘pretty.’

Beneath his hands and quickly fading, Circuit reached a weak hand toward the silver mech’s helm. “Y-You’re bleeding-“

The mech’s trembling fingers touched down and Megatron felt his frame faulter with the overwhelming amount of sensory information that he received. Before he could stop himself, the warlord found himself tumbling backward onto his aft.

By the time he managed to clear the warnings from his spinning helm and had pulled himself back upright, Circuit’s optics had faded to black. Across the office space, Battleblaze was staring at his crewmate, his mouth moving as he flinched along to the laser fire still raging outside. When his ruby optics finally moved back to rest on Megatron, they were clouded with pain and disorientation. “Your helm is on fire.”

Tentatively, Megatron reached up and waved his hand about the top of his helm, startled to find nothing but empty air where his helmet should’ve been. Upon further exploration, he discovered that it had been blown off and that his delicate sensory frills were-

The silver mech barely stifled his scream of pain as his fingertips connected with the fried sensors, finding them burnt and soaked with spilt energon. He’d taken a hit. A deadly one.

Finally aware of the severity of his injury, Megatron conducted a full systems diagnostic. The results came back far worse than he’d thought that they would. He looked down at his frame.

A hole had been punched through his left chest plate, causing the smoke that he’d thought was ‘static’ in his optics. His spark chamber was cracked, though not too severely (at least not by the ex-warlord’s standards) and his processor had a significant lag, indicating a severe, possibly fatal, helm injury. 

But the worst was easily his sensory frill. The fragile webbing, designed to fan out in response to stimuli, was in virtual tatters, rendering the big mech incapable of standing on his own or processing sensory information. It was like his primary senses had been completely stripped and everything had been replaced with pure agony. 

No wonder Magnus had shoved him into the back office and out of harm’s way.

As the shock and adrenaline began to wear away, Megatron was left in a fog of sensory confusion and in a fair amount of distress. Despite it, though, he still attempted to make his way to Battleblaze. There was no color left in Circuit’s plating to save.


	6. Chapter 6

Megatron was on the verge of collapse. But even as he struggled to sit up straight, he still knelt over the mech in his charge, soldering Battleblaze’s lines closed with trembling hands. The smaller black bot kept his remaining optic trained on his captain’s helm, watching the twitching sensory frill as Megatron worked over him.

When he’d finally managed to slow the black mech’s bleeding to a trickle, Megatron tumbled more than leaned against the wall beside him. His voice was slurred a bit when he spoke, drawing out the Tarnian accent that he hated so much. “How’re- yer levels?”

Battleblaze’s attention never once left the tattered frill as he spoke. “Better now.” The younger ex-Decepticon blinked slowly and slumped a little more heavily against the wall.

“S-Stay online.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Megatron didn’t bother correcting the other mech and instead rolled sluggish optics toward the door. The surface of everything seemed to wave and swirl around him, making him dizzier than he already was. He could tell that the battle outside was still raging, even though Ultra Magnus hadn’t yelled for some time-

“Sir?”

The silver mech looked back at the bot beside him, trying to make optic contact through the fog within his processor. Battleblaze was smiling at him, his remaining optic barely lit. From where he sat, Megatron could see the younger mech’s fangs, a remnant from the four million year war that they’d fought. His denta were discolored with fresh energon.

As quickly as his injured frame would allow, the former warlord made his way back to the other mech’s side. There was nothing that he could do for internal injuries and he sent what had to be the hundredth comm. to Ratchet and First Aid. He tried to lift Battleblaze into his arms, minding the smaller mech’s grievous wounds. “Medics’ll be ‘ere soon-“

“D-Do you th-think Primus forgives m-mechs like us?”

The question forced Megatron to stop. Outside, the laser fire paused, like it too waited for the former warlord’s answer. 

But even as the mech in his lap fell still and his single optic faded to black, Megatron couldn’t come up with an answer.

The silver mech’s HUD flashed a warning, indicating that his energon levels were dangerously low. He lifted the hand not supporting Battleblaze’s helm and traced a fingertip around the hole in his chest. It came away wet with fresh energon. Megatron sighed and sank further down the wall.

Then, in his processor’s eye, he saw his face.

Rodimus’ beautiful smile flashed before the silver mech’s hazy optics and the prime’s ready laugh sang sweetly in his audials. Megatron blinked his optics dazedly and the corners of his own lips turned upward. Primus, Rodimus was stunning. From his terrible report writing skills, to the way his spoiler flicked when he was mad, to the tiny scar that Megatron always sought to lick and kiss on the prime’s left throat cable… 

The red speedster was exactly what he’d been searching for throughout his entire lifecycle. Funny how dying awarded one such startling clarity.

It was a shame he’d never get to see him again. To hold him one more time, to tell him how he truly felt-

Megatron tried to activate his comm., but found that it was offline. Pulling in a rasping breath, he tried again and again to send a message to his co-captain, desperate to tell him the truth that he’d denied himself for so long. But every time he tried, the message bounced back, refusing to send as Megatron’s damaged processor began to shut down one circuit at a time.

 

~o0o~

 

Rodimus had never pressed himself so hard in all of his racing experience. His tires screeched on the hallway floor, unable to get enough traction as he pushed his frame to its limits, ignoring the warnings on his HUD that he would soon overheat. Nothing mattered then except reaching the bridge.

When he finally made it to the doors, he couldn’t slow down quickly enough and, upon transforming in midair, body-slammed against it. Somehow, the pain of crashing didn’t register when he detected the sound of fighting on the other side of the door. Bordering on frantic, he had to re-enter his passcode three times before the door finally slid open.

Chaos. Everything was chaos.

Screaming, laser fire, bodies on the floor-

Something sticky splattered his face the moment the door slid away and Rodimus could do nothing but stare in stunned horror as a green mech was torn asunder before his very optics. 

His audials popped and reset as an earsplitting screech echoed around the room and the prime turned just in time to see Whirl darting past him, guns blazing. How had he gotten ahold of guns? What in the-

The helicopter appeared half mad as he attacked one of the creatures (was that a praying mantis???) and dug his pincers straight into its head-

When Whirl landed once more on his peds, the alien flopping lifelessly to the ground in his wake, Rodimus was finally able to make out what the crazed mech was saying.

“DON’T TOUCH HIM! DON’T FRAGGIN’ TOUCH HIM YOU SLAGGIN’ SPAWN OF-”

Don’t touch who? Rodimus dropped his gaze to the heap of metal as Whirl’s peds. 

Beneath the empurata victim, with his own great sword lodged in his abdomen, lay one of the last mechs that Rodimus expected to fall in battle. Cyclonus’ vents fluttered slightly, the only indication that the seeker was still online.

Rodimus tore his optics away, searching for the familiar silver frame of his co-captain. Instead, his gaze fell on Ultra Magnus. 

The big blue mech was yelling near the front of the bridge, a blaster in his hand and his optics ablaze with cold fire. He was clearly trying to regain some form of command amid the chaos that had fallen-

Rodimus cast a sweeping glance around the bridge. Still, there no sign of Megatron. 

There were at least five more insectoids standing from what he could see and maybe three dead on the floor, counting the one that Whirl was currently tearing into pieces. There was no way of counting how many of his crew were down. They were in pieces, they’d been torn apart-

The captain felt cold rage flood his lines, unexpected in its ferocity. Tears also rose in his optics and he didn’t bother to stop them from tumbling down his cheeks. All of this because they wanted to pass through some airspace? His crew, scattered, dying, crying for help, reduced to spare parts, for what?

Rodimus felt a familiar heat growing in the pit of his tanks, threatening to boil over. It filled his lines and he found himself in motion, charging toward the nearest of the creatures with his fists clenched. As he moved, a strange calm fell over his frame and a grim smile settled over his face.

The last thing that the alien saw was a roaring ball of flame before it was consumed.


	7. Chapter 7

When the creature fell to the floor, reduced to a singed mass of popping, unrecognizable goop, Rodimus leapt free and landed on his peds. He spun on his heel and, using the momentum that he’d built up, descended upon his next victim.

Rodimus didn’t flame out too much, but when he did, it was a sight to behold. The prime wore a halo of flames, his body glowing with molten heat as he went about cutting down the second invading insectoid. The creature stood no chance, it’s armor melting easily under the living fire that was the enraged captain, crumbling to its knees as it shrieked in agony. 

It was after that second beast that Rodimus felt his ability starting to take its toll. 

His spark was beginning to spasm in his chest, the first sign that he was pushing his limits. On average, he could only hold the flames for fifteen or so seconds at a time. After that amount of time had elapsed, he typically needed at least half a cycle for his body to recuperate.

Rodimus bent at the waist, trying to catch his vents as he sent the internal command to douse the flames. Nearby, he could hear Ultra Magnus shouting in his direction, something about retreating until he had given his frame time to cool down. Immediately after a flame out, the young prime was always in danger of overheating.

Instead of heeding his second’s words, Rodimus cast another gaze around the bridge. Where in the Pit could Megatron be?

A large hand clamped onto the captain’s shoulder and he hissed, spinning around with the intent of attacking his third alien. He barely stopped himself in time to keep from taking Magnus’ helm off.

The blue mech’s plating was singed and a long, jagged scratch curved beneath his right optic. He was clearly worse for wear than when Rodimus had seen him earlier, when he’d first arrived on the bridge. The former Enforcer was shaking violently, even as his voice remained steady and commanding. “You must retreat! Ratchet and First Aid are expecting you, they’ve been commed!”

“But where’s-“

Ultra Magnus’ gaze cut downward and the captain followed his gaze. Rodimus’ plating seams were pouring smoke and the smell of burning oil reached his olfactory. Upon checking his HUD for the first time in a while, the prime found that he was, indeed, overheating. In fact, his notifications warned of permanent damage if he didn’t take fresh coolant immediately.

Brushing the alerts and warning aside, Rodimus gripped his second’s large hand. “Where is Megatron?”

“Sir, I hardly think-“

“Answer me!”

“He is in the command office-“

When the prime released the other mech and turned to look, he watched in horror as one of the last aliens standing crashed its way through the office’s front wall.

 

~o0o~

 

The wall shook, but Megatron didn’t move. He merely watched, strangely detached, as the front wall of the command office gave away, crumbling inward and toward him. Even when the alien creature’s emotionless eyes appeared through the dust, the silver warlord could only smile back.

He always knew that he would be smiling at death when it claimed him. After all, he’d been ready for it back in the gladiatorial pits, so long ago. The crowd had thought that he was simply over-confident as he had cut down his adversaries, a fanged grin always on his face. But Megatron had known better. He’d known that he was ready to die and that he welcomed it in any form.

The beast advanced through the hole it had created, its antennae fluttering as it took in the silver mech on the floor. In his arms, Megatron felt Battleblaze gasp a vent, but he lacked the strength to pull the smaller mech closer.

“You are Megatron,” the alien hissed, slime drooling from its broken mandible. It must’ve taken at least one hit from one of the bots still fighting outside on the bridge. The thought that at least one of his crew had landed such a blow caused a feeling of pride to swell in the former warlord’s chest.

The insectoid came closer, its limbs clicking in anticipation as it moved. “You are the one they call ‘Slagmaker,’ yes?”

“The war is- over-“

When Megatron spoke, the alien sidled closer. “Not for my kind. Your war destroyed our home, our lives-“  
With a swift flick of its leg, the beast flipped Battleblaze easily from Megatron’s grasp. Helpless to stop what was happening, the silver mech watched as the fatally wounded mech was haphazardly thrown across the room.

He barely had time to react further before the creature’s face was directly before his own, its large eyes narrowed with hate. “You will pay your debts now, Cybertronian.”

The instectoid reeled back one of its blade-like arms and lined up to plunge to appendage straight into Megatron’s spark. The silver mech didn’t move and instead stared up at the creature unflinchingly. 

If what the beast said was true, then he deserved what was to come. He had accepted long ago that his death would be the payment for his numerous sins and it would likely be at the hands of one of his hundreds of victims. He simply hadn’t expected it to end quite like this, with his bridge ablaze and his spark yearning to see a certain red mech one final time-

And then, just like he’d appeared earlier, Rodimus was before him.

Megatron watched the insectoid’s sharp leg as it plunged toward him. He pulled in a final vent, prayed for Primus’ mercy, prepared for the pain-

But it never came.

The silver mech opened his optics and found himself face to face with Rodimus Prime.

The speedster’s optics were wide as he stared down into Megatron’s optics, his mouth open in what appeared to be disbelief. The warlord could only stare back in surprise. Dizzily, he noticed that their faces were so close that either one of them could’ve leant forward and kissed the other. 

Instead, Megatron watched, strangely fascinated, as a single bead of energon tumbled from the corner of Rodimus’ sagging mouth. Then another tumbled down his jaw from the other side. Megatron forced himself to vent, his attention focused entirely on the bright pink trailing from his prime’s lips.

It all happened to quickly, that the silver mech wasn’t aware of what was happening until after it was over. One moment, he’d been preparing to meet Primus for judgement. The next, Rodimus was slumping strutlessly forward, his limps spasming uncontrollably-

A klik later and the creature’s helm was gone, severed neatly by a single gun shot from behind. Beyond the insectoid’s body, Megatron was faintly aware of Whirl’s presence and the silence that had befallen the rest of the bridge.

The silver mech blinked slowly, his optics sluggish as he registered the weight in his lap, the warm energon coating his hands. Whoever had come to rest against him began to slid down his chest and Megatron instinctively lifted his arms to hold on. He turned his helm just enough until he could make out the shape of a quivering, energon-splattered spoiler…

And darkness closed over his helm.


	8. Chapter 8

Megatron watched listlessly as Tailgate’s little peds swung back and forth. The minibot was perched on the mediberth across the room, his visor dim with obvious exhaustion. They’d connected optics once when the white mech had first entered the medibay. But since then, Tailgate had kept his helm down and his hands busy.

He appeared to be knitting as he hummed, fingers hurriedly spinning the needles With precision. Even though the minibot hadn’t spoken a single word aloud, the distress in his field was blatantly obvious. Megatron mulled over how odd it was for a mech so old to have so little control over his field.

Tiring quickly, Megatron returned to resting back on the numerous pillows that propped him upright. He felt motion jostle his sensory frill, causing it to pulse painfully. The silver mech couldn’t stop the groan that left his mouth as the delicate membrane brushed against the pillow case, causing the intricate stitches to pull. The pain was short lived, but still enough to steal his breath away before he finally managed to settle down.

It had been three cycles since the battle on the bridge and Megatron wanted nothing more than to return to the privacy of his lab. Though he’d been offered one of the private medical suites due to his rank of captain, the former warlord had abstained, unwilling to be left alone with his thoughts for too long. That is, until they’d told him about Rodimus.

Now, the crowded medbay felt less comforting and more crushing. He wanted nothing more than be alone with his grief, his guilt. But it was too late to change his mind. Now, he was on a mediberth in the common area, surrounded by the mechs and femmes that he’d failed to protect, trapped amid their pained whines and quiet sobbing.

Movement caught Megatron’s optic, dragging his attention from where he’d fixed it on the ceiling. Tailgate had set aside his knitting and was crawling up onto his knees to lean over the mech whose berth he sat on. 

Cyclonus’ monitors were stable, from what Megatron could tell. Ratchet had ultimately decided to keep the seeker in stasis until his injuries could be better treated and until they’d resupplied the ship’s stock of pain dampeners. To wake the purple jet would only mean forcing him to endure his largely unattended injury while awake. At least this way, he felt no pain.

Megatron looked away as the minibot leant forward and nuzzled the bigger mech’s slack face with his facemask. The silver mech found his gaze drifting toward the back of the medbay, where the private suites were.

Inside one, Minimus Ambus lay recovering from surgery in a makeshift recovery room. In another, First Aid and Chromedome were reconstructing a tall, slender green mech’s half-melted processor. The third room harbored Perceptor and Brainstorm, both of them trying to synthesize more pain dampeners and process donated energon for the wounded.

But it was the fourth room that Megatron looked to, the last one whose door was always closed. It was that fourth room held the rarely used CR chambers. Those, and life support.

Megatron knew that Ratchet was inside that fourth room, working tirelessly over the mech in his care. Drift was also behind that door, likely donating energon and merging with his amica in order to keep the injured mech’s spark turning.

Rodimus was in that fourth room, dying slowly and likely in an unimaginable amount of pain. So far, they’d been able to keep him in stasis lock, suspended in the sensory deprivation and healing nanites that the CR tanks provided. But with pain dampeners running low and the medbay’s medical staff stretched to the very limit, it wouldn’t be long before the prime would no longer have the luxury of oblivion.

Megatron had refused pain dampeners from the start, insisting that the injections and nerve blocks go to mechs in greater need. He’d only been unconscious during the surgery on his sensory frill, back when he’d first arrived and before he’d been able to fully comprehend what was happening. For the rest, such as the soldering of his spark chamber and the readjusting of his processor, he’d refused pain dampeners. The supply was too low and he could handle it. He deserved the pain anyway.

“I know you’ll refuse the meds, but you have to take the energon.”

The silver mech jumped at the voice from so near and turned his helm to find Velocity standing there. She had dents beneath her optics from lack of recharge and her optics were dim. She likely hadn’t sat down since the incident.

Megatron allowed her to help him sit up, willing away the sensation of heat in his faceplates. “How is Rodimus?”

The femme sighed and handed the captain his cube. “The same. No change since last time.”

“May I see him?”

“You know the answer.”

Every time Velocity came around, Megatron asked the same questions. How was Rodimus and could see him. 

He knew that she couldn’t allow anyone but bondeds into the CR chamber room and that she wouldn’t condone him getting up out of his mediberth. Let alone would she help him do it. Still, he had to try.

Velocity gestured wordlessly and the silver mech bowed his helm so that she could reach. Although they’d done this several times by then, Megatron was never fully prepared when the femme peeled back the wrapping to check the healing progress on his sensory frill.

Part the delicate membrane, the section covered in medicated gauze, had been badly burned and melted. The other half had been shredded by the shrapnel loosed when his helmet had been blown to pieces.

“Vent,” came the stern, but sympathetic command and Megatron forced out a shaky exvent as the medic replaced the medical grade-infused gauze.

When she finished, Velocity’s voice was soft. “Are you sure about the no dampeners thing?”

Megatron nodded and looked away, still trying to catch his breath. The femme regarded him for a klik or two longer before crossing the medbay to where Cyclonus lay. 

Tailgate had cuddled up to the other mech, wedging himself between the purple seeker’s arm and his gauze-encased torso. Megatron watched as the mini moved away just enough for Velocity to check the bindings before he was pressed right back where he’d been a moment earlier. Because Cyclonus hadn’t been through his surgery yet, it was important to make sure that rust hadn’t begun to grown in the wound.

Nearby, Nautica lay nestled with Rung, as cozy as she could be with her injuries. Her left leg had ben severed at the knee, but rather than that, she was going to be fine. It was nothing that a simple surgery couldn’t fix. But that surgery, just like the one that would save Cyclonus and hopefully Rodimus, required medicines and inhibitors and dampeners that had been exhausted within the first cycle after the battle on the bridge.

Makeshift cots lined the center of the medbay, burdened with mechs and femmes in various stages of injury and repair. The room was filled with constant, monotonous beeping. From the updates that Thunderclash brought him regularly, there had been five immediate fatalities on the bridge and two that had followed shortly after. The news that Battleblaze had succumbed to his wounds in the end effected Megatron far more than he’d thought it would.

A familiar creaking sound started and Megatron swiveled his helm quickly against the pillow. He ignored the sting that passed through his frill in favor of watching as the door to Rodimus’ room slowly opened.


	9. Chapter 9

Ratchet’s face was haggard as he cued the door shut in his wake. The medic was practically stumbling as he made his way toward Velocity, his face pulled into a tight grimace. Megatron watched as he and the femme whispered amongst themselves. 

The silver mech didn’t miss when Velocity sent a glance his way. When the fearsome medic turned and began to come toward his mediberth, the former warlord resisted the urge to pretend that he was in recharge.

When Ratchet finally made it to his berthside, he said nothing at first. Instead, he unsubspaced a datapad and compared it to the screens beside Megatron’s mediberth. The ambulance’s scowl only deepened as he got further down the datapad.

Megatron avoided the former CMO’s stare and kept his optics fixed passively on the ceiling as Ratchet spoke. “You’re refusing pain dampeners.”

It was a statement, not a question. Megatron rolled a shoulder nonchalantly and forced himself to look the other mech in the face. “There are other bots in greater need for them than I.”

“I’m the medic here and I’ll decide who needs what. Judging by your stats and lack of recharge, it’s clear that you are in enough pain to afford the use of a substantial dampener.” When Megatron looked away and didn’t respond, the doctor continued. “Do you enjoy being difficult or is there another reason you’re doing this?”

“There are more severely injured here-“

“Should I get Rung?”

When Megatron jerked his gaze back to stare at the medic, he found that Ratchet’s face had softened the slightest bit. The former CMO didn’t look at all like he’d meant for his question to be a threat; in fact, the his field was convincingly sincere.

Pulling a stool away from one of the documentation desks along the medbay wall, Ratchet took a seat beside the warlord’s mediberth. They regarded each other momentarily before the medic began to speak, his voice quieter than before. “I don’t know what you were to each other. But I know that he wouldn’t want you to be punishing yourself.”

Megatron fought to keep the surprise from his field and forced a look of annoyance onto his face. “I don’t know what you’re referring to. Rodimus was- he is nothing to me, medic.”

“Really? Then why is it that I didn’t even say his name and you assumed that I was talking about him?”

A heavy blush settled across the silver mech’s faceplates before he had a chance to collect himself. Instead of digging himself into a deeper hole than he already had, Megatron wisely kept his mouth shut.

Ratchet smiled, looking altogether too pleased with himself before his field once more adopted a serious tone. “Then you’ll have to tell him that yourself when he comes around.”

“ _If _he comes around.”__

__The medic sent Megatron one of his infamous glares and it was almost enough to make the silver mech cringe. Almost._ _

__As he stood, Ratchet spoke, his voice closer to its berating, grumbling tone. “I can’t let you into the CR room, but you’ll be the first to know when he’s ready to come around. On one condition…”_ _

__Far more eager than he’d intended them sound, the words slipped from the former warlord’s vocalizer before he could think things through. “Name it.”_ _

__“You agree to take pain dampeners.”_ _

__“Ratchet, we are running low-“_ _

__“-And your processor can’t handle the sensory strain any longer. Without at least a mild dampener, you’ll have long term damage to you frill. I could force you, but I wanted to give you the chance to make the right choice on your own.”_ _

__Quickly considering his options and recognizing that he was cornered, Megatron grudgingly nodded. With no small amount of satisfaction, Ratchet produced a syringe from his subspace, already filled with the required amount of medication for a mech of Megatron’s size and specs. If he hadn’t known better, the silver mech would’ve sworn that the old medic had known how their conversation would play out all along._ _

__The needle slipped smoothly between he gaps in Megatron’s plating, easing into his main line with barely a pinch. For all of Ratchet’s venomous sarcasm, he was truly a gifted and considerate mech. Barely a klik later, the medicine had been administered and the needle was being retracted once more. It wasn’t long before the sensitivity in Megatron’s sensory frill had dulled enough that he could relax fully against the mediberth’s plush pillow._ _

__“Ratchet?” Already, the former warlord could feel his glossa thickening in his mouth, indicating that the pain dampener was quickly taking effect._ _

__Above him, Ratchet pulled off the old needle and disposed of it before he cued the mediberth to lie back some. “Hm?”_ _

__“How did you know?”_ _

__The medic lowered the mediberth until Megatron lay flat. He hovered for a moment, optic narrowed, and appeared to be considering his answer. “I may be an old mech, but I’m not blind. I can tell when two stubborn afts care about each other.” Ratchet moved to walk away, but paused. “Plus, you said his name while you were drugged up in surgery. Multiple times.”_ _

__Megatron couldn’t stop the horror from entering his field. “Did anyone-“_ _

__“Relax. I was the only one that worked on you. We were short staffed, as you can imagine.”_ _

__As Ratchet walked away, a self-satisfied swing to his step, Megatron felt himself slowly succumbing to the drugs he’s been given. As the calm settled over him, he managed to summon enough energy to curse the sly medic’s name. It was clear that the syringe had held more powerful medication than Ratchet’s ‘mild pain dampener.’_ _

__It was just before the darkness closed over his spinning helm that the doctor’s words washed over him, immediately lost to the easy cradle of recharge that he was descending into._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My cat got hit by a car so now it's just me and Jazz (her kitten) :(


	10. Chapter 10

Megatron wanted to stay busy, but they wouldn’t let him do anything beyond play processor exercising games on a datapad. Ratchet had been firm in his instructions that the silver mech was allowed nothing more strenuous that astro-checkers or a human game called Scrabble. 

Across the aisleway from him, Cyclonus glared at him over the top of his own datapad. Or was he just sizing him up? It was hard to tell with the purple seeker. Whenever Tailgate wasn’t around, the mech always looked like he was planning a murder.

Maybe it was because Megatron had used the word ‘apricity’ in their latest game. 

Cyclonus had been brought back online under the condition that his spinal strut be injected with a nerve block. As a result, the stoic mech was numb and limp from the waist down. That way, he was kept from moving too much and he couldn’t feel the pain from his continuously unsoldered wound. 

Though the internal bleeding had been successfully stopped, the mech wasn’t out of danger yet. That explained why Tailgate refused to leave his side even to fuel and was currently curled up under Cyclonus’ arm in deep recharge.

As the seeker pondered what word to use in retaliation, Megatron let his gaze wonder toward the back of the medbay. 

Nearby on another mediberth, Minimus Ambus pulled a rattling breath, still unconscious. He hadn’t recovered properly from his surgery and was temporarily being kept in a medically- induced recharge. Occasionally, the little green would awaken, drowsy and confused until one of the poor, overworked medics noticed him. He would then be eased back under, his frame falling lax as his optics once again dimmed to black.

Gazing past the sleeping SIC, Megatron found himself dwelling once again on the fourth door.

Drift had gone in that morning and hadn’t left since. The silver mech had paid careful attention as to who went in and out of the room. Even if the only visitors were Ratchet, Drift and, occasionally, First Aid when the older medic was on his mandatory break. Megatron made a point of being constantly aware of who was in the room.

The datapad in his hand pinged and the former warlord returned his attention to the screen. The word ‘languish’ flashed up at him and pulled a scowl onto Megatron’s face. Across the aisleway, he could’ve sworn that he saw Cyclonus crack a grin.

 

~o0o~

 

It was late in the nightcycle when Megatron woke.

Uncertain of what exactly had pulled him form such a deep, medicinally-aided recharge, the silver mech remained still at first, stretching his senses about the room. He kept his optics closed as he searched for the source of his wakefulness. It wasn’t long before he found it.

The sound of liquid being sloshed reached the ex-warlord’s audials, making him squint at the ceiling with confusion. A klik before he could move to sit up, an alarm blared from nearby.

The scream of the alarm was heavily muted for some reason, but it took Megatron’s addled processor next to no time at all before he pinpointed its source.

He scrambled to his peds, ignoring the stabbing pain in his sensory frill as his peds touched the floor for the first time in cycles. With panic racing through his lines and lending energy to his sluggish spark, Megatron forced his heavy frame into action, throwing himself toward the source of the noise.

It was coming from the fourth room.

The silver mech hauled himself forward on dragging peds, unable to move any more quickly in his state. It seemed to take forever to reach that slagging door.

When he finally did, the big mech collapsed against it, dropping his full weight into the side of the door in his desperation. Inside the room, the sound of water splashing onto the floor had gotten louder. Megatron swallowed thickly preparing to call for a medic, for anyone to come and open the door-

The noise inside stopped. Megatron held his vents, waiting for it to start up again. When it didn’t, he did the only thing that he could think of.

He smashed his fist into the entry panel, crushing it beyond repair.

Beneath his shoulder, the door shifted away. Megatron fell through the opening as his support disappeared and he landed with a thud on the floor just inside the room. 

The thick fluid of the CR tank slicked his palms as he forced himself upright with a groan. The texture of it against his plating made him feel a little sick as he struggled to gain purchase amid the slippery substance. Before he could make it back to his peds, however, his optics caught on the CR tank that rose before him.

The tank glowed brilliant blue, illuminating the mech it held in a halo of seemingly holy light. Megatron lifted himself onto his knees, unable to do anything at first but stare in awe at the beautiful red shape floating amid the heavenly brightness.

That is, until he understood what he was seeing.

Rodimus. Rodimus, his co-captain, the mech who had sacrificed himself so that Megatron might live, was convulsing within the chamber. From where he knelt in the mess on the floor, the silver mech could see that the prime’s vents were blown wide open and that the mask, the one that should’ve been providing him with fresh air, had become dislodged from his face.

Megatron watched with horror, frozen in shock, as the mech in the tank jerked repeatedly, his mouth and optics wide open as he sucked the thick CR fluid into his mouth. Bubbles obstructed his face momentarily as the last breath he’d taken was released to float to the surface. 

Just as his body began to still, sinking lower in the surrounding fluid, Rodimus’ rapidly dimming optics focused on Megatron. There was only a flicker of recognition, the slightest hint of a smile on blue-tinged lips as he fell. Then it was gone. A last bubble escaped the prime’s slack mouth, like a final unanswered prayer as it travelled to the surface, toward the air that he could not reach.

Megatron launched himself to his peds and, using every ounce of energy that he had left, plunged his fist through the CR tank’s glass wall.


	11. Chapter 11

Glass exploded around him as his hand when through the CR chamber’s wall and Megatron found himself slammed backward, a rush of fluid hitting him squarely in the chest. It took him several kliks before he could figure up from down as he flailed around on the floor, his damaged sensory frill causing him to feel nauseous and confused. By the time he managed to scramble back onto his knees, he felt like he might purge.

Pushing down the dizziness and forcing himself to move, the silver mech somehow got his optics to stop fritzing. Quickly, he scanned the room.

A red heap caught his attention, not too far from where the CR chamber had once stood. Rodimus was spread eagle on the floor of the room, his arms and legs loose. Megatron crawled toward him, trying to push his field at the smaller mech, desperate for some kind of response. He got nothing in return.

Finally reaching the prime’s side, Megatron looked down into the other mech’s face, searching for some sign that Rodimus was still online. The red mech wasn’t venting, wasn’t projecting a field, nothing- 

Megatron was used to keeping a cool processor in times of great stress. He had led thousands of mecha into battle; it was his job to keep a clear helm when slag hit the fan. But in all of his time of seeing the gore of battle and the hardships of war, he had never once seen something so upsetting as Rodimus Prime laying lifeless and still.

Gently, the silver mech turned his co-captain onto his side, supporting him that way as he began feverishly massaging the other mech’s vents. He had no medical tools to manually empty the fluid from Rodimus’ airways, so he was left with trying to convince the prime’s frame to purge on its own. He knew that time was of the essence. Too much longer, and the speedster would suffer processor damage-

The lights in the room came on and hands clamped down on Megatron’s shoulders, dragging him backward.

Primus, he was sick and tired of being dragged everywhere.

Megatron swung himself around, trying to dislodge the hands that were pulling him away, away from the shattered remains of the empty CR chamber. Away from Rodimus.

“Stop fighting, slag you, you’re making things worse!”

Even though the angry voice of Ratchet was familiar, the silver mech continued to struggle. Didn’t the medic understand what had happened? Rodimus had been drowning! He needed help-

“Stop fighting or so help me I will sedate you!”

Megatron paused briefly, unwilling to admit that it was because of the slagged off medic’s threat. Instead, he caught his vents, his optics searching wildly for-

First Aid was kneeling over the fluid slicked frame, working to administer a purgative directly into Rodimus’ vents. But the prime’s chest had been so badly damaged in the battle, his lines half-melted from overheating- it was nearly impossible to get a dose of purge coding into his diagnostic port.

That left them with only one more option.

Ratchet pushed the spent silver mech into the corner of the room, giving him a look before departing to assist First Aid. Usually, the former warlord would’ve considered challenging the intimidating medic. But as he looked on, his optics landing on Rodimus’ unmoving body, he knew that staying out of the way would be best for the drowned mech.

Both medics bent over their charge, their hands moving quickly enough to blur. Maybe if his sensory frill hadn’t been reinjured, Megatron might’ve understood the medical jargon that they used. But instead, the silver mech was forced to watch, unable to understand or help as the pair went about trying to clear Rodimus’ vents.

“- purge- too much damage-“

“-shock-“

Megatron rolled out of his corner and onto his hands and knees. The motion caused something in his tanks to flip and he clamped his denta together. He wouldn’t purge. He would NOT-

The former leader of the Decepticon forces purged into his own hands, his processor spinning with pain and rising delirium. 

By the time his tanks had ceased churning and his vision had cleared, Megatron was trembling uncontrollably. The silver mech had never once drank enough high grade to make himself as sick as he felt in that moment. He thought of Starscream briefly and how badly the little Pit spawn used to get, drunk enough to purge and mumble incoherently, most of it self-deprecating and reminiscent. 

Megatron tried to settle his rattling plating and lifted his optics from the mess on the floor. Across the room, he could see that First Aid had parted Rodimus’ chest plating and was attaching a series of lines to his spark chamber. In the meantime, Ratchet had connected every single one of the red mech’s medical ports to his own and was waiting for his peer to finish with the lines.

Ratchet glanced up and caught his gaze. A moment later, the doctor looked to the door and yelled at no one in particular. “Get him out of here! The floor is soaked-“

Once again, Megatron found hands on him, dragging him upright. Velocity must’ve bene waiting outside-

The silver mech struggled, knowing that he could dislodge the femme if he tried hard enough. He needed to stay, to help Rodimus. Somehow-

Sharp talons dug into Megatron’s plating, causing the former warlord to freeze instantly. He was one well acquainted with the damage done by seeker claws. Megatron tilted his helm back slightly, barely reacting when his newly-torn sensory frill brushed against purple plating. 

Cyclonus glared down at him, his face pale and colorless around flaring red optics. The mech’s torso was still bound tightly and the telltale smear of fresh energon could be seen seeping through. 

The tall seeker bent down to the warlord’s level, his voice trembling ever so slightly with exertion. “We must go.”

Still unable to understand how Cyclonus had made it out of his mediberth, Megatron nodded dumbly. The purple mech was supposed to have a nerve block, he shouldn’t even be standing-

Megatron allowed himself to be guided out as his vision fizzled and his field went lopsided. It felt like the room was spinning and flipping around, never settling upright. As the silver warlord was taken from the room, his arm looped over a struggling Cyclonus’ shoulder, he chanced a look back.

Rodimus still lay on the floor, a peaceful look on his blue-tinted face. First Aid had finished connecting the wires and was working over a box that all the wires unspoiled from. It looked something like Brainstorm’s briefcase. 

Just as Megatron’s peds cleared the spilled CR chamber fluid, Ratchet reached across and flipped a switch.

A loud pop sounded and Rodimus’ frame tensed. His joints flickered with electricity and his spinal strut arched up off the floor. Optics, usually a beautiful, deep sapphire, lit with violent white light. Megatron stared, uncomprehending, as the red mech’s limbs spasmed and fell still once more. He barely heard when First Aid called for another round.

Beside him, Cyclonus hissed determinedly, trying to keep both of them upright. But it was no use. The injured seeker stumbled to his knees, taking Megatron down with him. The silver mech didn’t even feel the ground as his HUD went black.


	12. Chapter 12

No one was safe it seemed.

Ratchet’s tirade appeared to be unending as he stalked about the medbay, shouting orders left and right. Typically, Megatron would’ve thought that the mech was overreacting. But upon discovering the sources of Ratchet’s outrage, the former warlord kept his mouth shut and his optics down.

It turned out that Cyclonus had been purposely kinking the line that periodically administered his nerve block doses. When Ratchet had demanded to know why he’d done such a thing, looming over the dazed seeker with optics ablaze, Cyclonus had refused to offer a direct answer. Instead, he’d stayed quiet as the medic repatched his wound and administered a manual nerve block. 

Megaron had watched the purple mech’s legs fall loose and noticed that the seeker’s remaining frame grew tense when it happened. He understood then why Cyclonus hadn’t wanted the nerve block: to be immobile was to be vulnerable. 

Watching the jet, Cyclonus’ shoulders square and his optics sharp, caused something within Megatron to crumble. It had been the Decepticon way, not so long ago during the war. The weak fended for themselves or died to make room for those more worthy of fuel.   
All it took was for Megatron to give his own dilapidated state a glance to know how wrong his own philosophy had been. And so, he added Cyclonus’ current sleepless state to his growing list of things to be guilty for.

The second thing that had Ratchet so riled up was the revelation as to why Rodimus had begun drowning in the CR tank. It turned out that the speedster’s high performance frame had burnt through the sedatives far more quickly than Velocity had thought he would. As a result, the prime had come online inside the tank, his injuries causing him immense amounts of both pain and confusion. He’d immediately begun to fight, dislodging his air mask in the process. The only thing that had saved him, as Ratchet kept reminding everyone, was Megatron’s “quick thinking.”

Really, the silver mech hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d been too terrified of losing Rodimus and too disoriented with his damaged frill to do any kind of thinking. He’d simply… reacted.

He wasn’t complaining though. Ratchet usually would’ve been pissed that he’d managed to reinjure his sensory frill, putting back his own recovery indefinitely. Megatron had also completely destroyed one of their two CR chambers beyond repair. It was a wonder that the medic hadn’t decided to take his helm as payment for both offenses.

Instead, Ratchet was sitting beside him, carefully applying nanite to the sensory frill atop Megatron’s helm. The medic didn’t even admonish the silver mech when he flinched. 

The cool sensation of the medicine coating his fried sensors put the silver mech into a half-trance state as Ratchet worked. His words were slurred as they left his vocalizer. “Rodimus?”

“In room two. I just told you that.”

Megatron nodded listlessly, not remembering if Ratchet had told him that before or not. 

Ratchet finished applying the solution and sat back in the berthside chair, wiping his hands on a cloth. “There. Should hold you over until we reach the outpost to restock.”

“That is… the last of it?”

“Well, you wouldn’t have needed more if you hadn’t-“

Megatron looked up from his covers when the medic’s voice abruptly cut off. Ratchet refused to meet the other mech’s optics, wiping at his fingers with more concentration and force than he needed to use. The silver mech watched, uncertain, as the volatile medic finally tossed the cloth away. “Ratchet-”

“Have you been briefed on Rodimus’ condition?”

“I… not since the incident, no.”

The old medic glared at Megatron’s vital screen, his field lashing with agitation. A klik later, he had turned around and was busily pulling the privacy curtains closed around them. The former warlord watched him in silence, waiting to hear how the little prime was doing.

When they were hidden from the view of the rest of the medbay, the former CMO dropped his exhausted frame into the chair beside the mediberth. His lifted a hand and pinched his nasal bridge, brow furrowing. 

“Ratchet?” Megatron sat up a little straighter, sensing that the news wasn’t something he wanted to hear. “How is he?”

“It’s not good.”

The silver mech had already guessed that much, but hearing it caused his spark to plummet to his peds. “Has his recovery been set back? Is he…”

“Megatron… that thing penetrated Rodimus through his spinal strut. The kid was nearly cut in half; it just barely missed his spark chamber.” Ratchet dropped his hand from his face and clenched his fingers together in front of himself. “Pit, it was already bad, but now…”

The medic paused, his intake visibly working. It was rare to see Ratchet so vulnerable, so openly distressed. Megatron stayed silent, not wanting to interrupt as the doctor tried to gather himself.

“By the time we were able to reach him, he was as good as offline. No sparkspin, no energon moving in his lines. Nothing. We had to shock him just to get his vents to purge.”

Ratchet twisted his fingers and winced before releasing them to hang limply between his legs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “The shock severely damaged his frame’s ability to produce healing nanites. Partly because he was in bad shape to begin with. But his frame is also a speedster model. He’s not designed to take battle inflicted injuries like the one that he took. On top of that, he’d just finished flaming out, causing severe damage to his internals anyway-” 

Ratchet lifted his optics and met Megatron’s at last. “What I’m saying is that his repair nanites are no longer capable of fixing his injuries. The shock killed the remaining nanites that his flame out didn’t.”

Megatron stared, uncomprehending. He had to be misunderstanding something, somewhere. The medic couldn’t be saying what he thought he was saying. “You can’t mean…”

But the doctor was already nodding, his optics dim. “I’m saying exactly that. We’ve done everything that we can for him at this point. Despite that, Rodimus’ may never walk or transform again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My bad :/


End file.
